Returning the Favor
by Taliya
Summary: When Hattori Heiji was eight years old, he gave away his dessert to someone he thought needed cheering up. Fast forward eight years later, and the gesture is returned—because acts of genuine kindness cannot ever be forgotten. Character death. Written for Poirot Café's Themed Writing Contest #21: Ice.


Detective Conan and Magic Kaito characters, settings, and ideas do not belong to me but to Aoyama Gōshō.

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Warnings: Character death

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Returning the Favor

By Taliya

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Word Count: 3992

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Eight-year-old Hattori Heiji hummed happily as he crunched on his sweet-plum-flavored kakigouri, licking the condensed milk off his spoon. The July evening was quite warm despite the fact that the sun had just gone down, and he was now on his way home from a day of hanging out with his best friend, Toyama Kazuha. The pair had spent their afternoon playing in the park next to her house, and despite the fact that it was rather close to dinnertime Heiji had opted to buy himself a treat in secret, as he had resolved he would not tell his parents that his appetite had been spoiled by the sugary confection.

The wail of sirens broke through his thoughts, and he watched as patrol cars tore down the streets, quickly followed by fire trucks and ambulances. Two blocks away he could see burnished, flickering gold light reflected on some of the taller buildings—an illumination that did not originate from the disappeared sun.

 _Fire!_ he realized, and instinctively clutching the plastic cup of flavored shaved ice wrapped with a few napkins, he jammed the plastic spoon into the ice and dashed towards the scene. He skidded to a halt, panting and wide-eyed as the small kabuki theater of a local troupe went up in flames.

Policemen were cordoning off the area and herding away pedestrians while the firemen sprayed the raging fire with streams of water. Emergency medical responders catered to the people escaping the burning building, attending to burns and applying oxygen masks to the victims, which spanned a wide range of ages. Heiji's green eyes took in the chaotic scene and he wished he could somehow help despite knowing that he would be brushed aside since he was still a child. A single boy about his age sitting on the back bumper of an ambulance caught his eye, though he could not say why the boy had captured his particular attention.

The brown-haired boy was hunched beneath the tan shock blanket draped over his shoulders with the edges of the taped white gauze patches peeping out from under the blackened clothing, sitting impossibly still. Only the fact that he was breathing kept him from being passed over as some extremely lifelike statue. Heiji knew from his classmates—himself included—that children his age were almost _never_ still, and that the only time they actually _were_ was when they slept. But the brunet's eyes were clearly open, and even from a distance Heiji's sharp eyes noted the unusual indigo color. Those eyes, set in a too-pale face, stared wide and unblinking at the ground before him. His wild brown hair was singed at the tips and smudges of ash dusted his cheeks and forehead, further contrasting his pallid features.

 _He's in shock,_ Heiji realized, and though medical personnel swarmed the scene, they seemed to have forgotten about that one lonely boy. The sight of that child—no older than himself—sitting alone and clearly beyond frightened, disturbed the young Osakan more than he cared to admit. And so he nudged his way past the spectators' legs, sneaked past the police barricade, and dashed towards that lonely, traumatized boy. He slowed as he approached, aware that he did not want to spook him.

"Hello," he greeted softly, easing his way into the boy's line of sight.

The child's head slowly raised up until those devastated indigo orbs locked with his, though he said nothing. The shiny, wet tracks of tears traced their way down his cheeks to converge at his chin, and as he watched, two more beads silently escaped his eyes.

The Osakan child's heart ached upon seeing those hollow, deadened eyes. Unless the person was actually _dead_ , Heiji believed no one who was alive should ever have eyes that looked _dead_. "My name's Heiji—Hattori Heiji," he introduced himself, tempering his normally brassy tones in an attempt to coax the boy out of his withdrawal. "What's yours?"

The boy blinked before dropping his head down, resuming his staring contest with the ground.

Heiji shuffled a little closer. "You were in there, weren't you?" he asked, then wished he could knock himself in the head. Of _course_ the boy had been inside considering his current state. And Heiji prided himself on calling himself a _detective_. "Do you want to talk about it?" he tentatively offered, trying to make up for his clumsy social faux pas.

The boy emphatically shook his head in reply, a soft, hiccupping sob escaping him as he shuddered.

The young detective shifted uncomfortably, unsure of whether or not the boy would welcome a hug, since hugs always made him feel better—be it from his mother, father, or even Kazuha. He would never admit it, though—he was a big boy now, and big boys did not _want_ hugs—but there were always situations that were exceptions to the rule—situations like this one. And so he leaned forwards and clumsily wrapped his arms around the boy's shoulders, careful not to dump his cup of flavored ice on the boy's back. The boy merely huddled, unresponsive, in his embrace, and Heiji backed off, a frustrated, sad frown on his face.

The Osakan sighed gustily as he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot as he made his decision. "Well, I know I can't do much to help you and I know you are feeling bad, so here." He offered his partially melted kakigouri. "You look like you need it more than I do."

The boy's eyes lifted from the ground once more to study the proffered dessert.

"It's sweet plum with milk," Heiji added enticingly, hoping the boy would accept his offering. It was his favorite flavor, and he had bought it with his own allowance money too!

Slowly one trembling hand reached from within the folds of the blanket to grasp the cup of flavored, sweetened ice. The boy's eyes rose to meet Heiji's, and behind the desolate tundra of shock, a tentative warmth blossomed within that made Heiji positively beam. "Thank you," he whispered, voice hoarse from the smoke.

"It's nothing," Heiji deferred, pleased that he was able to do something for this sad, forlorn boy. He blinked. "Aw, crud, I'm _so_ late for dinner! My parents are going to _kill_ me!" He spun on his heel and sprinted towards the cordon. Just before he passed through he turned and called with a wave, "Cheer up, okay?" before he disappeared into the crowd.

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 _In the heart of the Nation's Kitchen_  
 _When the second one chimes six times,_  
 _Above the earth and beneath the moon wide awake_  
 _I will take the Winter Dream._

 _-Kaitou KID_

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Sixteen-year-old Heiji sighed, anxious for tomorrow evening to arrive. Kaitou KID had announced a heist in Osaka two days ago, and Edogawa Conan—or rather, Kudou Shinichi, though miniaturized—was scheduled to arrive tomorrow in time for the heist the day after. This would be the second heist that KID had held in Osaka—the first being the dual Memories Eggs heist.

It was a chilly December Saturday, and though Tokyo was usually colder than Osaka, for whatever reason the temperature had plummeted to skirting the freezing point. It had rained the previous day, and with the temperatures being what they were, the Osakan was particularly careful with his footing this night. Yet despite the icy conditions, people were out on the sidewalks shopping and generally enjoying the festive air as Japan ramped up for the New Year's celebrations, which would begin in three days' time. The detective was on his way home from a case, having determined that the murderer had been the victim's former lover. He burrowed further into his scarf, hands in his pockets as his thoughts wandered to the upcoming KID heist.

A yelp from ahead was the only warning Heiji had before a stranger latched onto the passing Osakan for support as his feet slipped out from beneath him, nearly bringing the detective down with him. Luckily for the both of them, Heiji's instinctive reflex to remain upright prevailed along with the fact that he was not the one standing on ice, and with the use of the strength gained from years upon years of kendo, Heiji managed to keep himself on his feet with the stranger dangling from his neck.

"Gods, I am _so_ sorry," the stranger apologized as he attempted to right himself. "There's a patch of black ice," he said as he scrambled to get his feet back under him. He shakily stood, and Heiji braced the man's shoulders to steady him. The man tentatively released Heiji from his grasp, only to wobble dangerously. He would have fallen had the Osakan not caught him. Heiji scooted the both of them away from the patch of black ice, and the man gracefully stood on his own.

"Thank you," he said gratefully with a tinge of embarrassment in his voice as he swiped at his pants, making a small sound of dismay at the melted water that now stained the shins of his legs. "I didn't see that bit of ice there."

"No big deal," he replied with a shrug. "Just glad I saved your kneecaps, or hands, or bum even," he said, grinning. The man straightened, fixing his cap as he did so, and Heiji sucked in a breath, surprised. "K-Kudou?!"

The teen blinked in confusion. "Kudou?" he asked, puffed breaths forming ephemeral clouds in the crisp air. "I think you have the wrong person. Name's Kuroba Kaito—pleased to meet you." Kuroba executed a traditional shallow bow.

"Hattori Heiji," the detective replied as he reciprocated the gesture. "Sorry, but you look very similar to a good friend of mine."

Kuroba laughed warmly. "Proves the doppelgänger theory, doesn't it?" he remarked, and Heiji grinned, at ease with the man before him. Kuroba blinked as he took a good look at his savior. "Hey, you're a detective, aren't you? One of the 'high school detectives'?"

Heiji shrugged. "Yes," he said, trying to brush off his fame, though inwardly he was extremely pleased to have been recognized. And by a non-native Osakan, no less! "You're from Tokyo, right?"

The teen blinked before he grinned. "My accent immediately gave me away, yes?"

"Yep. What brings you to Osaka?" Heiji asked, curious about the stranger with the easygoing demeanor.

"I'm here for the Kaitou KID heist," Kuroba replied. "I'm his biggest fan!"

Heiji chuckled. "No kidding? I have a friend who has thus far been the closest to capturing the thief."

"Edogawa Conan, am I right?" Kuroba responded. When Heiji nodded, the teen huffed. "I doubt the kid could actually _catch_ KID. Their physical sizes alone would hinder him."

The Osakan muffled a snicker. _Too bad the guy doesn't know Kudou's armed with a soporific dart in his watch._ "I'm not so sure," he replied aloud. "I think Ku—Conan might have a trick or two of his own up his sleeve."

Kuroba stuck out his tongue at the Osakan in jest. "Well, regardless I'll be in the crowds cheering for him. As you obviously side with Edogawa—being the detective you are—may the best man win."

Heiji laughed. "Indeed. Maybe I'll see you at the heist, yeah?"

The teen grinned mischievously. "Maybe."

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Heiji cursed under his breath as Kaitou KID pitched himself out of a window, the Winter's Dream tanzanite in his possession. Beside him, Edogawa Conan—otherwise known as a shrunken, in-hiding Kudou Shinichi—swore with words no normal six-year-old should have known. "Come on," the Osakan muttered, racing towards the elevator lobby, "we'll follow on the bike." The pair waited impatiently for the elevator to transport them down twenty stories. They sprinted to Heiji's motorbike, both pairs of eyes on the infamous triangle of white that drifted through the skies. Heiji kept his eyes on the road while Shinichi directed him after the phantom thief.

"He's turned a sharp right!" Shinichi called over the buzz of the bike. "And he's dropped sharply in elevation!"

Heiji chanced a glance at the skies, and indeed KID had fallen into a steep dive to lower himself towards the ground. Directly trailing him but lagging by a good fifty meters, they watched in bewilderment as KID pulled out his card gun, aimed at something and fired multiple times in quick succession, circling tightly above a specific spot as he did so. Heiji stopped in a parking lot and cut the engine. The sound of gunfire immediately assaulted their ears, and the pair of detectives tossed their helmets off and raced towards the scene.

The Osakan, by virtue of his longer legs, arrived first and peered around a warehouse corner to find the police engaged in a firefight with a group that had staked themselves in a warehouse. Semiautomatic rifles lying below the broken windows, along with a scattering of playing cards embedded by the edge into the ground around the firearms strongly hinted of KID's interference—and exceptional aim, considering he had both shot his card gun while steering his hang glider. There were still two masked men returning the police fire, and Heiji noticed that his father, Hattori Heizo, was one of the men ducked behind a police car. He distantly noticed that Shinichi had arrived, pressing himself into Heiji's shins in order to lean around the corner to watch as he wondered why his father was personally involved in this particular scuffle.

The pair remained where they stood, silently observing the exchange as the police repeatedly barked orders to lower their arms, which were ignored. The superintendent supervisor of the Osaka police force twisted around to issue a new set of instructions when Heji's world plummeted into slow motion.

Hattori Heizo jerked as a bullet erupted from the right side of his neck, the spray of blood backlit by the patrol vehicles' headlights. Heiji's breath left his lungs in a rush, and he stood, frozen and transfixed, as his father was knocked off his feet to the ground, his large body bouncing and skidding on the dirty concrete from the force of the impact. The man's eyes were wide with shock and oblivious to the panicked shouts of his subordinates as several of them crowded around him.

 _It's not true,_ Heiji thought wildly, unable to believe his eyes. _I can't—!_

"OYAJI!" he screamed, abandoning his hiding spot and sprinting towards the prone form of his father, uncaring of the situation the police were engaged in as time sped back up to its normal pace. "OYAJI!"

He skidded to a halt on his knees, oblivious to the friction burns he had given himself in the process as took in the scene. He distantly heard the police calling for an ambulance, barely realized that Shinichi had followed him. Hattori Heizo lay sprawled on the ground in a rapidly growing pool of blood with an entry wound just to the left of his spine and a larger exit wound where his right carotid artery was. Tracing the line of the projectile, Heiji realized with a sinking stomach that the bullet had likely snapped the spinal column, thus inducing paralysis—what had been the odds of a shot like _that_? Combined with the amount of blood leaking past his and Shinichi's fingers as they tried to apply pressure to the two wounds, and the teenaged detective felt a vise crush his heart at the awareness that his father was going to die by bleeding out within several minutes.

"No no no no no no," he heard someone desperately mumbling, and it took him a moment to realize he was the one vocalizing the single syllable over and over again.

"Heiji…"

The Osakan froze at his father's whispering of his name. "Oyaji…?" he choked. His jaw trembled and he clenched his teeth, willing himself not to cry, not to feel rage, not to feel the absolute devastation curling in his gut. Instead he gazed at the face of the man who had raised him, memorizing his features and forever imprinting them into his mind with that eidetic memory of his.

"Take care of your mother…" the superintendent supervisor sighed, eyes blinking slowly once before his face slackened, the focus in his eyes dying away to a vacant stare.

"O-Oyaji…" Heiji breathed, tears pooling in his green eyes. His hands, liberally covered in crimson, gently, tenderly cupped his father's face. "Please…" He softly stroked his father's cheeks with his thumbs, smearing red across Heizo's face. _"Please…"_

"Hattori…" he heard Shinichi whisper brokenly, the tiny, blood-soaked hands of his best friend reaching upwards from Heizo's neck to gently remove Heiji's hands from the still-warm corpse. "He's gone…"

Heiji's hands convulsively clenched around the small hands as his mind tried and failed to come to terms with his father's passing. He ducked his head with a strangled gulp as the tears finally came, unaware of the police finally taking out the last shooter or the arrival of the ambulance. The only thing he knew was that his father was gone, and that he never had to chance to tell his father "I love you" before he had departed.

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Heiji sat on the back of one of the ambulances that had arrived at the shootout scene, draped in a shock blanket and as still as an ice statue. Beside him, Shinichi hugged a cup of hot chocolate as he kept an eye on the other cup meant for the Osakan. The shrunken detective continually shot worried glances at his friend, who stared blankly into the distance. Shock had settled in, and since his father's death Heiji had yet to say a word. Around the pair was a swarm of activity, with the police taping off the area, searching the warehouse for stored illicit materials, and taking down witnesses' statements—namely Shinichi's—and paramedics tending to injured gunmen and policemen alike, as well as removing Hattori Heizo's body from the scene. A crowd had gathered just beyond the police cordon, drawn to the flashing lights and wailing sirens.

Shinichi had explained everything as best he could to Chief Superintendent Toyama Ginshiro—who, as Hattori Heizo's direct subordinate, would become the next superintendent supervisor. The chief superintendent listened to Shinichi's recitation of events with a stone-like mien before thanking the boy. He laid a heavy hand on Heiji's should and squeezed once to convey his condolences before taking a deep, bracing breath and retaking charge of the situation.

A paper cup nudged his fingers. "Hattori?" Shinichi asked, manipulating the beverage into the Osakan's unresponsive hands. Heiji reflexively grasped the cup when Shinichi's fingers pulled away as he continued to stare into the distance, mind somewhere beyond the shrunken detective's reach. Heiji felt frozen, detached from the world around him. Sight and sound buzzed in incoherence around him as he mentally skated along a frozen wasteland, searching for some sort of anchor to tether and stabilize himself with.

Warm arms suddenly enveloped him, and Heiji blinked as he recalled himself. Distantly he heard Shinichi gasp. Too stunned to move, Heiji simply remained still in the stranger's hold until he was released, and his eyes traveled upwards to his friendly assailant's face.

Kuroba Kaito stood before him, an expression of infinite sadness on his face and deepest understanding glimmering in his indigo eyes. The sight made him want to cry all over again. "I heard the rumors from the crowd, and I'm _so_ sorry…" Kuroba said softly, his demeanor somber. "Do you want to talk about it?" he quietly asked, eyes intently watching the teenaged detective.

Did he feel like talking about what had happened a scarce hour ago? Heiji was not even sure he could vocalize his thoughts, much less the single-word response needed to answer Kuroba's kind offer. No, Heiji's wounds were too fresh, too raw to speak of, and he distantly wondered if this was how that boy had felt that evening he had found him sitting on the ambulance bumper with a devastated air about him and a shattered emptiness in his eyes. Heiji mechanically shook his head in lieu of a spoken reply, and Kuroba frowned and sighed dejectedly. The Detective of the East lookalike glanced down at his hands, his expression brightening slightly as he raised one towards him.

A cup of kakigouri invaded Heiji's vision, and he blinked at the sight. His green eyes traveled from the flavored ice to the person wielding the dessert, and simply stared with a slight quizzical expression on his face. "I lost my father eight years ago," Kuroba said softly, eyes distant as he recalled the memory. "He died in a fire during a performance of his, and I watched him burn. Afterwards, a boy came up to me, hugged me, and offered me a kakigouri." Kuroba blinked, and his smile was warm and bittersweet. "He said his name was Hattori Heiji."

"That was you?" Heiji breathed, the first words he had said in the hour after Hattori Heizo had passed away.

Kuroba nodded. "I know I'm a total stranger to you and I know I can't do all that much to help you, but I could not forget your kindness." He shook the cup of ice slightly. "Here. It's sweet plum with milk," he said, eyes dancing ever so slightly with the inside joke, though that sparkle died almost immediately a moment later as he seemed to physically deflate. "I know it's too cold to realistically eat kakigouri, but…" His eyes slid away as his cheeks reddened in embarrassment. "When I heard what had happened, I had to beg the lady at the counter of the shop to make it for me. Stupid, I know." He sighed, and would have pulled the cup of sweetened ice away had Heiji not grasped it. Kuroba's eyes widened even as he bit his lip in uncertainty.

Heiji's lips curved upward into the barest of smiles as his eyes met Kuroba's. "Thank you," he murmured.

"It's nothing," Kuroba replied, and Heiji could appreciate the fact that they were replaying—nearly word for word—their conversation from eight years ago, only with the roles reversed. "I'm only returning the favor." Kuroba smiled, though he shuffled anxiously. "I had to sneak past the police to get in to see you, so I better go. That and I have to catch a train back to Tokyo." He smiled encouragingly at the Osakan and said with a slightly cheeky but genuinely warm grin, "Cheer up, okay?" before ducking under the yellow tape and disappearing into the crowd.

Heiji chuckled softly in amusement as he took a bite of the shaved ice. Sweet plum with milk—his favorite flavor.

"Hattori…" Shinichi began hesitantly, warily. "How do you know KID?"

The Osakan paused in the act of nibbling a spoonful of ice as he blinked, sluggishly connecting the dots. "Met him eight years ago… That was KID?" He took a long moment to allow that tidbit of information to sink in before he sighed ruefully and took another bite of the sweet. "Huh." A sliver of black appeared against his palm on the clear cup, and he scooted the ice around to uncover a phone number written in mirror so that he could read it without having to remove his hand and rotate the cup. Along with the number a was a short note, also in a small but clean handwriting:

 _If you need to chat, I'll listen._

 _-K.K._

Heiji smiled slightly, warmed by Kuroba's consideration. _Maybe,_ he thought, _maybe after I've had enough time to come to terms with everything and begin the healing process, I'll take the thief up on the offer. But not as a detective._ He felt a flicker of warmth within him slightly thawing out the icy despair he felt, relieved to know that there was a ready shoulder to lean on and an understanding ear to listen. _No… I'll take up his offer as a friend._

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Author's Note: Oh my god, writing Hattori Heizo's death made me tear up—which was a little awkward since I was sitting in a coffee shop, typing away and trying not to cry in public when I wrote that scene. I don't dare wonder how you might have felt reading it. I decided to make the scene of Kuroba Touichi's death occur in Osaka for the sake of this story—author liberties and all, you know. Why are my stories always so sad? Kakigouri is Japanese-style flavored shaved ice. I hope you enjoyed it.

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Completed: 26.02.2016


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